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After Oliver leaves, I walk further into my apartment, dropping my bag on the floor and flopping down onto my couch. I pick up a pen and notepad from my coffee table and write “call a tow truck” on my to-do list. I know I could just call them right now, on the spot, but as with any mundane task, I put it off in favour of doing something more fun. Like lying on the couch and pondering all my life choices. With my head resting on one of my soft throw cushions, I think about Oliver and our convoluted history of my running into trouble and Oliver running in to save me. It has been a permanent fixture in my life, ever since he was catapulted into mine, courtesy of Amy. On the first day of kindergarten, Amy sat down next to me, stole half my sandwich, and declared we would be best friends forever. And she was right. We have been inseparable ever since. Every memory I have of growing up includes Amy by my side, and in the early days, Oliver was also there watching from the sidelines, helping us get out of any and every mess we made. As we got a bit older, we seemed to grow naturally apart, but that never stopped him from being there when I needed him.
As I think back, the first memory I have of Oliver as my knight in shining armour is when I was seven years old and the stinky Cameron Frankel had made me cry by calling me Silly Lilly in front of the entire class. Oliver, who was older and wiser than me, took the time to comfort me in the playground, sharing his cookies and telling me terrible jokes until I felt better. He was there for me when I was thirteen and my hamster, Buttons, the cutest hamster ever to live, had died an unexpected death. With my teenage hormones all over the place, I was so upset that I couldn’t bring myself to study for my upcoming maths exam. With the idea of a failing grade almost inevitable, Oliver, the maths nerd, stepped in, sitting up with me for half the night to make sure I was ready for the test the next day. I got a C+ for our efforts, so it had all been worth it. And when at the tender age of sixteen, I experienced my first heartbreak at the hands of Zack Petty, who dumped me for the more popular, better-looking Bianca Cooke, who had bigger boobs than me, it was Oliver’s shoulder I cried on. I cannot remember a time when I needed him and he wasn’t there. Even when he went away to study at university, he stayed in my life. I recall the one time when he dropped everything to come and get me when my ex-boyfriend Sebastian broke up with me while we were on a romantic weekend away, leaving me stranded in a cabin on a snow-capped mountain. Oliver was the one who got in his car and drove the three hours to pick me up after Amy could not find a way to get to me. And he let me listen to sad Ed Sheeran songs all the way home while feeding me chocolates. And in doing all this, over all these years, he has been owning, bit by bit, pieces of my heart. Unfortunately for me, given how well structured Oliver’s life is, with a strict ten-year plan in place, in contrast to the chaotic nature of my life, I cannot imagine I own any part of his.
OK, time to snap out of this trip down Oliver's memory lane and focus on more positive things, like baking. For as long as I can remember, baking has been a cathartic experience for me. When I am in the kitchen, assembling ingredients and creating new treats, any stress or angst I am feeling melts away like butter. I can always rely on losing myself in flour and sugar and chocolate. There is not a single world problem that I believe cannot be solved with chocolate.
When I was fourteen years old, I fell in love with baking. I had enrolled in a home economics class at school to get out of taking any other, “serious” electives, and it was love at first bite. I fell in love with my whole heart. It was one of the few classes at school that I looked forward to each week, and I would spend hours at home in the evenings or on the weekends trying out new recipes to get better at it. My parents, being more academically inclined, saw this as nothing more than a fun hobby of mine, not understanding how much being in the kitchen, creating new flavour profiles, soothed my soul. In the kitchen, I felt in control, as opposed to in every other facet of my life. I had thought my dad would appreciate this, given how similar cooking is to his line of work. Until earlier this year, my dad spent most of his career working in a research laboratory, following scientific protocols, similar to what I do when I follow a recipe. To me, making the perfect crème brûlée is a form of science, where every ingredient is exact and every step precise. When I told this to my parents, they laughed, not in a mean way but in a dismissive one, so I decided way back then to keep my passion for food as only a hobby and tried to find a more serious path in life. Upon reflection, this has not gotten me anywhere good.
When this feeling of melancholy threatens to overpower me, I decide to do something more productive with my thinking time. After that embarrassing car ride home with the judgy Emma and the so well-put-together Oliver, I am suddenly sick of being the only adult in our group to not be fully grown up yet. I keep circling from one disaster to the next, and perhaps it is time to do something about it. I know I am capable of being more than what I am now, the person who floats through life, making messes and hoping someone will be around to help clean them up.
With this determination to be better in mind, I am filled with a sudden surge of energy to do something proactive about it. I am twenty-three years old, after all. Maybe it is time to rein in the chaos and take charge of my life. I spy the to-do list on my coffee table, pick it up, and add to it in earnest. First comes a title: New Year’s Resolutions—How to Get Lilly’s Life in Order. Then item number one: Get a new job. This to me is a no brainer. At the moment, I work as a secretary (aka general dogsbody) at a testosterone-filled real estate office. I wandered into this job soon after leaving university, having graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business studies (of all things), and with a complete lack of a career plan. To pay for things like rent and food and bills, I accepted an offer from the first place willing to hire me and have been stuck there ever since. And the place is awful. The men working there seem to think I am their mother (no, I won’t take your clothes to the laundromat) or their personal pin-up doll (no, I don’t want to pose as a “model” for your “photographer” friend). The place does not foster a healthy working environment.
When I picture what my ideal career looks like, it has always involved baking. And wouldn’t it be great if I can find a job that merges my passion for food with a way to make money? Maybe I can open and run a little bakery/café filled with all my favourite treats, and it would be a place where friends can meet and hang out in a comfortable, welcoming environment. Like Rachel and Chandler and Joey and the gang at Central Perk. The more I think about this, the more I warm to the idea. I could call it the Love, Lilly café. Where every treat is made with love. Wow, only a few minutes of thinking and I know I am onto a winner with this idea.
OK, so number two on my to-do list is to figure out how to make this dream job a reality. No big deal, two super simple things to start with. Now number three: Find a better place to live. Despite my assurances to Oliver, this place is not safe, my working relationship with Johnny notwithstanding. I often think it is lucky that Frankie is so old and prone to frequent unplanned naps; otherwise, she may not have lasted too long parked in this neighbourhood. The trouble with this item on the to-do list is the money I make at my crappy job only allows me to live in a place like this, where the rent is low because it is subsidised by a small amount of perpetual fear. Hmmm, tricky.
And last but not least, number four on my list, move on from this teeny, tiny, little Oliver crush and find a boyfriend who is in my league. Oliver has been an unattainable fantasy crush for my entire adult life, and it is time to grow up and be realistic about my love life. I need to find someone who is more suited to my brand of doing life. And despite this current attempt at being normal, let’s face it, there is a chance I will stumble on to-do list item number one, so it is best to find someone who embraces the chaos.
Now that I have my thoughts out in the open, with a plan in place, I feel a bit better about the future. I get excited at the thought of ticking things off my list and am pleased just to have made a road map for myself to get out of the rut I have been living in. With that now sorted for the moment, I can head to the kitchen to work on the cookies I am planning to make for Oliver. A thank-you and a “sorry for ruining your evening” batch of Love, Lilly cookies. And maybe I will make some for Amy as well, while I am here. And don’t forget the “for safe keeping” cookies for Johnny. I have a busy night ahead. With a big smile, I take out the required flour and sugar and butter. I put on some soft music in the background and get lost in the pleasure of creating something from scratch with love.
*****
When I wake the next morning, with a slight sugar hangover—I may or may not have overindulged in a little bit of raw cookie dough—I attempt to make myself presentable. I start by working on my hair, always the trickiest part of getting ready. My hair is medium length, wavy—OK, frizzy—and loves to expand in volume with any hint of humidity. After I end up tying it in a high ponytail, I put on a pair of shorts, a black tank top, and a bit of mascara and lip gloss to jazz up my face, then get ready to leave. Almost out of the door, I stop short, having glanced at my list, and backtrack to my computer to find a local tow truck to rescue Frankie. I hope she can forgive me for leaving her out there alone all night. Now that I have that all sorted, I gather up my baked goods and head out again. Only to reach the bottom of the stairs and realise I have no means of transportation. Sometimes I take a while to join the dots—tow truck to get Frankie means no car, Lilly!
I wave to Johnny, who it would seem has not left his spot loitering in front of the building, and deposit a box filled with double chocolate chip cookies into his hands. They are his favourite. Johnny opens the box with glee and takes a big sniff.
“Lilly, these smell like heaven.” He picks me up and crushes me in a big hug.
I thank Johnny and get back to the problem at hand. No transportation. As I glance around, I spot my old bike resting against the side of the building. About six months ago, I bought this bike during a fitness fad and used it a grand total of one time. Who knew cycling long distances was so hard? Since then, the bike has remained rusting in the sun, the rundown state of it the only reason it hasn’t been stolen yet. I look at the tyres with doubt, giving them a feeble kick, and try to think of another option. An Uber is too expensive, especially given how much the tow truck company is charging me to get Frankie, and I can’t ask Oliver to come and pick me up to get his thank-you gift, because that seems redundant, so riding the bike it is.
“What do you think, Johnny? Is this thing going to get me where I need to go?”
Johnny frowns at my sad-looking bike and says with a cautious nod, “Just don’t go too fast, Miss Lil. And try to stay on the footpath. Avoid cars!”
I take this advice to heart, and after putting my two Tupperware containers in the pink basket at the front of the bike, I hop on and wobble for a bit. With a wave to Johnny, who is still watching me with a worried frown, I say a little prayer to the gods from yesterday who forsook me and now owe me one and start peddling. It’s not that far to Amy and Oliver’s house. How hard can this be?
CHAPTER 3
Lilly
One hour and a bucket of sweat later, I arrive puffed and dishevelled at the Harlow house. It is hot today, which is pretty standard for this time of year. I don’t know why I thought cycling anywhere in the middle of summer was a good idea, but here we are. What started out as a fresh outfit is now drenched in sweat, and my hair is at least twice its normal size. Not that I should care too much about what I look like. This family has seen me in much worse conditions. A case in point is the time I had a mutant bout of the chicken pox and looked like a creature dredged up from the deepest blue sea. That was a rough week! And then there was that weekend of food poisoning a few years back, after I dismissed the concerns of those around me and binged on gas station sushi at 1:00 a.m. Let’s just say Amy and Oliver did not see me looking my best that night. So I guess being a little bit sweaty—OK, maybe a lot sweaty—isn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things. I just wouldn’t mind, this one time, looking at least presentable in Oliver’s presence.
Before I enter, giving my sweat some time to dry on my skin (gross), I stop to admire the split-level house in front of me. It is a gorgeous cottage-style home, with a white weatherboard facade and cute planter boxes in front of the windows. It also has an old-fashioned wraparound porch in the front, complete with a delightful timber swing. The Harlow family has lived here forever, and when six months ago, Amy and Oliver’s parents retired and moved to a small town a few hours away, closer to the mountains and with a more temperate climate, they let their adult children remain in the family home, living rent free in the lap of luxury. Lucky kids! They don’t have to deal with the likes of Johnny to feel safe in their home, not that I mind Johnny that much, and maybe even consider him a friend of sorts. Anyway, once I am feeling drier, hoping my deodorant holds up today, I decide it may be safe to enter. I balance the cookies in one hand, knocking on the door of the house that is like a second home to me, and hope against hope that it is Amy and not Oliver who will open the door.
“Lilly? Are you OK?” Of course it’s Oliver again. The gods must be angry with me at the moment. I need to remember to do something charitable in the next few days to get them back on my side. Also, Oliver is looking at me with a high level of alarm, so I can just imagine how bad I must look.
“Hi, Ollie! I come bearing gifts.” I point to the Love, Lilly cookies in my hands.
“Come from where?” he asks. “The sun?”
Standing back, he moves to allow me to enter, and as always, he gives me a sweeping glance from head to toe, like he is checking for injuries or something.
Uncomfortable with his gaze on me, I shift from side to side, wishing I could do something to magically fix my appearance.
“Funny guy! I had to ride my bike, as Frankie isn’t in working condition, remember? And before you ask,” I continue, interrupting his obvious next question, “I have organised a tow truck, and they are picking her up as we speak.”
“You rode all the way here in this heat?” he asks, concern replacing his amusement. “You should have called me. I would have come and got you.”
“And then I would have had to bake you some more cookies, and the cycle continues.”
